Caller ID
by Hatteress
Summary: Dean gets a really ill-timed phone call that turns out not so ill-timed after all. Dean/Cas Slash.


_**AN:** Written for a prompt by V who wanted Destiel phone sex. Here y'are sweetheart, congratulations on getting me to be even MORE pervy than usual :P_

_Because the show has given us enough angst for a lifetime, this here is set in a magical AR where god mysteriously brought Cas and Sam back at the end of season 5 and the boys have been on the road, doing their thing a la season 1 ever since._

_Disclaimer: I don't own the show or the boys, I'm just a giant perve who writes fanfiction._

_Un-betaed - all mistakes are my own._

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Dean's life the way it is, he doesn't really get all that much time to himself. It's not something he dwells on, but he'd be lying if he said he didn't appreciate the rare occurrence of an empty motel room and an absent brother.

And that's what he's doing right now. Appreciating.

Dean bites off a low moan as he circles the head of his dick, thumbing the pre-cum in a slick spiral. He's buck naked on the bed, spread out in a sort of shameless sprawl that would never happen under any other circumstances. His left hand is slick and sure, fisting his length in turns as his right trails lower, teasing at his entrance with a sureness that speaks of experience.

Dean doesn't do this often, mostly for what it does to him. Jerking off in the shower, gritting his teeth against any telling sounds has become habit; he'd learned early on in life that going any further was a sure fire way to wake up the neighbours.

Now is no exception.

He keens around the first finger, stretching into the harsh angle he must to hit where he needs it most. His other hand fists his cock with stuttered strokes, stopping to squeeze as he adds a second finger with almost no prep. It's a stretch but a fucking delicious one. The groan that shudders out of him as he starts moving; crooking his fingers shamelessly into himself is mostly swallowed by the pillow as he buries his face in it. Even so, it's enough that he doesn't register the ringing of his phone until his ringtone is into it's second guitar riff.

Dean ignores it - whoever the fuck is ringing him at this goddamn hour can wait - and the song cuts off as the call switches to voicemail. Dean grunts as it does, taking the opportunity to up the anti with a third finger that has him throwing his head back against the pillow, a snarled mess of a sound breaking clear of his throat.

"Fuck yes," he pants into the darkness of the motel room. The fingers that aren't splitting him open play a dirty grip glide over his cock, making heat gather, hot and sharp in his belly as his release builds. Dean moans, filthy and _loud_as he scissors himself wider wishing, not for the first time, that he had the guts to ask someone to do this for him. It's not like he hasn't had offers. But Dean's never been one for giving up control. And this? Dean thrashes up on the bed with a strangled cry as he grazes his prostate. Well this was like his one touch button to mindless-town.

The strains of AC/DC take a couple of seconds to register through the haze of what he's putting himself through and when they do Dean swears, loudly.

Whoever the fucking FUCK is calling had better have the best goddamn reason in the fucking WORLD.

Dean snarls as he lets go of his dick to reach for his phone, wiping as much of the lube off his hand as he can on the bedspread before he picks it up. He's half surprised the phone doesn't snap in half with the violence he uses to flick it open.

"This had better be another goddamn apocalypse I swear to god," he growls into the phone.

"Dean?"

There's no mistaking the voice on the other end, not with the way it drags down his spine like gravel rash. "Cas." Dean groans. Of fucking course it had to be Cas. Since the Apocalypse That Wasn't it'd become a regular occurrence to have Cas's caller ID flashing at him at all hours. For a dude charged with rounding up Lucifers remaining minions on Earth, he was still woefully inept at working out most of it's occupants slept eight hours out of the day. "Dude it's late."

"I apologise, did I wake you?"

Dean's fingers tick slightly where they're still inside him as if in answer and Dean has to practically bite his tongue in half to keep from making a noise as he slips them out of himself. "No," he says hastily, hoping like hell it isn't _too_hastily. "No, I was just ah...nevermind. What's up Cas?"

"I have tracked one of Lucifer's generals to a warehouse on the outskirts of Miami," Cas says as Dean shifts uncomfortably. He's still hard - almost painfully so, the unexpected interruption obviously not enough to douse his determined libido. His dick bobs obscenely at his movement as Cas continues, oblivious on the other end of the phone. "He has warded the structure against Angelic intrusion - I have to wait him out."

"And you called because you're what? Bored?" Dean asks risking a one handed grip on his cock; squeezing in an effort to find even a little relief from the low thrum of arousal.

Cas is silent on the other end of the line for a moment before he says, "I...yes. Perhaps." And Dean suddenly feels like a heel for putting that note of uncertainty in Cas's voice. Dude may have been all juiced up again thanks to God or whatever had brought Cas and Sammy back that day in Stull cemetery but Cas has kept a few human quirks - one of them obviously the need to keep in touch.

"It's all good man, I get it," Dean says, slouching back against the mound of pillows at his back. "Sometimes ya just need to talk." And then, because he knows Cas wouldn't know how to start a conversation if he had a goddamn instruction manual Dean does it for him. "How're you liking Miami?"

Cas hums over the phone. "The heat is bothersome," he says and Dean snorts, shifting on the bed again and failing to keep his hand from making an aborted stroke where it's still holding his dick.

"Well, you don't know how to appreciate it," Dean says. "I'll bet you're still wearing that damn coat aren't you?"

He only realises after the question is out that he's just asked what Cas is wearing while _jerking absentmindedly at his own dick_. It should be enough to make Dean let go like his hand's on goddamn fire and yet when Cas says, "Yes" on the other end of the line, Dean's hand - completely without permission - just adds a twist to an aborted upward pull.

_Jesus Christ..._

"Cas, normal people don't wear three layers of clothing in ninety degree weather," Dean says, ignoring the little voice inside him that's pointing out that normal people also don't rub one out while on the phone to their friends.

But... he can't seem to fucking help himself. Whether it's the fact he'd been so close when Cas called or the clench of nervousness that comes with Cas possibly realising at any moment what Dean's doing, Dean's hand on himself feels about ten times hotter than it should.

There's also the not so little contributing factor of Cas's voice sounding like something people pay out the nose to listen to on the other end of a sex line. "Angels do not feel the heat as humans do Dean," Cas says gruffly and fuck but if the register of it doesn't spark something low and hot in Dean's belly.

Dean is so going back to hell for this.

Biting his lip, Dean squeezes around the base of himself as he asks, "Then what's your problem? Too many half-naked chicks around for your liking?"

And there's a fucking visual: Cas in his holy tax accountant getup on a beach in Miami surrounded by hot, tanned little numbers in scraps of swimwear. Dean snorts even as his hand picks up it's pace.

"I have watched humanity for millennia Dean - state of undress is of little consequence to me," Cas says and Dean's suddenly very aware of his own fucking _state of undress_.

Dean feels himself flushing as he wonders if Cas's nonchalance about nakedness would extend to Dean like this, bared to the world, the sheets bunching under his hips as they stutter hotly on the bed at the feel of his own hand on his cock.

"The heat here is wet and heavy," Cas continues and Dean sucks in a hasty breath as the words seem to curl themselves around the arousal in his belly and _tug_. "It gets everywhere Dean. Down my collar and under my clothes. Everything sticks and there is no relief."

Dean should laugh. Should tease Cas about sweating and humanity and dealing with the world but he can't seem to focus on anything but the thought of Cas's hair, sticking up in that fucking ridiculous way it does - little strands damp with sweat and sticking to his forehead as he frowns, pissed at the heat. Dean can picture himself chuckling, swiping the hair back off Cas's forehead - his fingertips suddenly damp with the angel's sweat. He can imagine how the humidity would bead on Cas's skin; how it would collect at the nape of the angel's neck and the hollow of his throat.

And he can imagine the noise Cas would make when Dean licks it up.

"Dean."

Dean doesn't know if it's the sound of his name on Cas's lips or the imagined taste of the angel's sweat on his tongue but Dean's suddenly coming, hard and _debilitating_, spilling over his hand and biting down desperately to stay the moan trying to escape.

"Dean," Cas says again. "The demon has emerged, I must go."

Dean shudders through an aftershock that has his dick twitching, shocky and too sensitive in his hand and clears his throat desperately. "Yeah," he says, hoping manically that his voice doesn't sound as fucked out as he feels. "Yeah okay." Dean lets go of his cock and swipes his hand across his chest as he musters up just enough brain cells to add. "Be careful man, yeah?"

"Yes Dean," Cas says. "I will call again soon."

And then Cas hangs up.

It takes Dean about thirty seconds of staring at the 'call ended' screen of his cellphone, heartbeat tapering down to something approaching normal before he realises what just happened.

What the fucking FUCK?

**END**

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_**AN:** Wanna prompt me? Head over to Tumblr: hatteress dot tumblr dot com and drop me a message/ask/reblog/whatevs :)_


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